A Trail of Red Ribbon
by Theory G
Summary: There's a legend that says we are all connected by a degree of six people. Some instances, it's an even smaller number. Could you believe one of those instances is in a place like New York City? "How?" is the question though. How can a death in a hooker alley in Manhattan be related to the cold case of a girl and boy who went missing at the age of 9? How is the question. Read.
1. Ian Grady

_2013_

One step. Two steps. Three steps…There was nowhere else to go.

"Are you done running, Ian?" The man asked.

"Get it over with. I won't do anything _you_ and your _friends_ want me too. No matter how much you pay me." Ian Grady hissed, stepping away from the brick end of the alley way. He wasn't going to run anymore. He knew what would happen, one way on another. But at least, this way, whatever plans his killers had would be delayed.

"Do you think your death will be gallant, Ian? Dying to save a woman's life? Do you think the police will even find out about why you died? Let alone who killed you?"

"I don't care. As long as they find me with a bullet in my head and she's safe.

"I know what you're going after. I heard about it while serving. And if all those rumors are true, you'll never get close to her. They'll protect her."

"Who's going to protect you, Ian?"

_ZIP!_

Ian dropped to the floor with a quick cry. He grounded his teeth together in determination. He knew this man. He liked to see his victims suffer. Ian wouldn't be so weak and foolish as to let him enjoy his death.

_ZIP!_

Ian didn't even make an audible sound. He laid his head against the alley wall and took deep breaths. He might have had a chance of escaping his murder ten seconds ago. Now his fate was sure.

He didn't care if no one came to his aid. He'd done a lot of things, all of which haunted him day and night, all of which deserved a severe punishment. This was it. His karma. He didn't fear it though. He'd stopped fearing most things a long time ago.

The only thing he truly feared now, at that moment, as he lay on the dirty ground, in the shadows, unable to see his attacker, was the fate of her. Someone had to protect her. He knew, most certainly, that after he was found dead, that she would be taken care most profoundly, but these people could get anywhere. The rumors he'd heard had to be true. They just had to be. For her sake.

Ian began to whisper. "Hail Mary, full of grace…"

_ZIP!_

His body slumped against the wall.

_ZIP!_

The task was done.

…

He pulled his bloody fingers away from Ian's neck.

"We're too late."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No." He looked around. "And there's nothing to prove that anyone ever was, except maybe a few homeless people."

A moment of silence.

"I'm going to call Carter. See if she and Fusco can find anything new."

"Until then, Mr. Reese, we have a new number."

"It gives us nothing, then it gives us everything. Do you think the machine is trying to make up for lost time?"

"Do you have a problem, Mr. Reese?"

"No, no. I'm just asking.

"Who's the new number?"

"Sophia Anne Lowell. Twenty-four year old college student at NYU, majoring in Roman literature. Engaged to Lieutenant James Haste of the Second Hundred and Thirty First Infantry out of Afghanistan. He's coming home next week, after which he will be discharged from duty and given a scholarship to NYU."

"That's a little more than usual for you, Finch. Have you already started to follow her?"

"Sophia Lowell and Jim Haste are two very dear friends of mine, both of whom I still keep in contact with today."

…


	2. Sophia Anne Lowell

The single light that hung above the table illuminated little in the small, dull room, but it was bright enough that the three people inside could see each other. Below the light sat a table, where one detective, a man, sat, a basic yellow folder underneath his hands, whilst his partner, a woman, stood against the wall.

Before them sat a young woman with long, curly strawberry blond (more blond than strawberry) hair. Her hazel green eyes were emotionless – everything about her was calm and cool. She was waiting. For anything.

The first detective opened up his file real quick and slid a photo towards the young woman. "Did you know this man?"

Curiosity finally fell like a blanket on the girl as she looked down at the picture. It was of a man, as the detective had said, with reddish brown hair and a stiff neck. The girl inspected every inch of the man. She knew many people; sometimes names mixed with faces.

She shook her head though. "No. If I do, I don't remember. Why?"

"He had your apartment's address and number on a piece of paper in his back pocket. The last person he called was you." The female detective explained.

Now puzzlement fell on the young woman. "When?"

"Yesterday morning. Around eight o'clock."

"…I was on the subway at that time. I was heading to school."

"It says here, on your phone records, that the call lasted for five minutes."

"Was anyone else there? Boyfriend? Husband? Maybe just a friend in general?" the female detective asked.

The young woman shook her head. "My fiancée's in Afghanistan right now. He won't be back until next week."

"Has he been the service long?"

"Six years in October. He enlisted the day he turned eighteen. He wanted to get away from home so bad. Now he can't wait to _get_ home."

The female detective chuckled. "Yeah. I know that feeling. What branch?"

"Marines,"

At that exact moment, the young woman's cell phone went off. "Excuse me," She said as she pulled it out of her pocket. _Unknown Number_ it read, but she knew exactly who it was.

She pressed "end".

"Do you need to get that?" The male detective asked.

"No. It's just an old friend. I'll call him back later."

Now the female detective's phone went off and the young woman rolled her eyes with a sigh.

"Carter," The detective answered. She listened for a moment, and then turned to the woman. "It's for you."

The young woman didn't even reach out to take the phone from the detective.

"Sophia, please," The trio heard call from the cell.

With a deep breath, the young woman took the phone. "Harold," She said slowly, "I pressedend for a reason on my _own _phone."

"Sophia, please. Don't play games with me right now. The machine just gave me your social security number. I'm sending my partner over to the precinct to collect you now. The man on the other end of the call informed the young woman.

"I'm fine, Harold. I can take care of myself."

"Every time Jim goes on a tour, I tell him to be careful over there and not to come home in a box. Now I'm going to tell you – Don't make him come home to a box."

"Did you consider the fact that _I_ might be the perpetrator, Harold?" The two detectives exchanged curious looks. "I've told you before, I'll be all right."

"Please give the phone to Detective Carter."

"Of course. Goodbye, Harold."

"Goodbye, Sophia."

Sophia Anne Lowell handed the phone back over to Detective Joslyn Carter, and then looked at Detective Lionel Fusco. "Do you have any more questions for me? If not, I'll be on my way." Sophia began to stand.

"Hold it," Carter ordered, slipping her phone away. "You're coming with us."

Miss Lowell slumped back into her chair. "On Harold's behalf, I suppose?"

"How do you know Mr. Glasses?" Fusco asked, extremely curious.

Sophia chuckled at the nickname. "He saved my life."

…


	3. Chloe Cahill and Alice Clock

We have a new number."

"Oh really? Did you forget about your girlfriend already? You were pretty upset when her number came up this morning." John teased. He behind Finch and peered at one of the computer screens. It was a recording from the small airplane platform where Finch had had John take Sophia once they'd left Central Park. It showed her climbing onto the plane, looking scared.

John looked down at Finch with empathy. He could tell his friend truly was troubled by the fact that his machine had given him this young woman's social security number. "She'll be okay, Finch."

Harold pressed a key and the recording disappeared, telling John his friend was fixing the few bricks that had cracked in his wall of emotion tremor.

"Sophia is a very stubborn girl whom I care very much for, yes, Mr. Reese, but for now we will just have to keep a watchful eye on her. At least until Jim returns home from his tour. With him, she will be well protected."

Once John walked out in front of desk, Finch took a deep breath and readied his nerves for whatever was to come, and then spoke. "You told me never to exclude you from a case again, Mr. Reese, and I promised you I wouldn't."

John looked back at his friend, confused.

Harold stood and walked to the board with two pictures in hand. He posted them as he said their names. "Alice Clock and Chloe Cahill,"

The first picture, Alice Clock, could not have been older than fifteen. She had short, clean cut light auburn hair with soft grey eyes and a bright smile. She was tall and lean, like Chloe Cahill, who had wavy brown hair a few shades darker than Alice's, and brown eyes. She was older than Alice, but only by a decade or so.

If you looked at the pictures side by side, you would have thought the two girls were sisters at the way they physically looked and smiled. If not, the thought that they were related would have at least passed your minds.

Reese looked to Finch, his face drenched with disbelief. But then it hardened and he demanded, "What is she doing here?"

"Her parents died two years after you last saw her. Her father was in a drug shoot out, and her mother's office had a carbon dioxide leak. Her grandfather moved her here to New York where's she spent the rest of her life. She was a minor in psychology and is currently teaching history to seniors at Roosevelt High School in Manhattan.

"Alice's is her adopted daughter."

"Do you have any idea why their numbers came up?" John asked, hurting internally.

"Unless they plan on using them against Chloe's grandfather, I see no reason why someone would want to hurt them and it seems unlikely that Alice would be a perpetrator."

"Who's her grandfather?"

Finch turned to the desk and produced another picture. "Carson Grady, CEO of Grady and Sons Shipping. He has hands in many pies."

"You mean Ian and Chloe were cousins?"  
Harold nodded solemnly. "That's why I came up the theory that Chloe's and Alice's numbers came up because they're relatives of Mr. Grady. Ian was killed and he worked for his grandfather. Since her Mr. Grady became her legal guardian, Chloe's been well taken care of. I know you don't believe in coincidences, Mr. Reese."

"Grady's up to something and someone's going after his family because of it."

"Yes," Finch limped back to his desk and took his seat. "I've arranged a position for you at Roosevelt High School as a substitute P.E. teacher. You'll have Alice during her third period tomorrow and you can keep an eye on Chloe as well."

"What happened to their usual teacher?"

"He and his wife are taking a taking a weeklong cruise through the Caribbean."

John raised an eyebrow. "That was very generous of you, Harold,"

Finch looked to his partner, emotionless, searching for a hidden meaning behind his words. He would have to be careful for the next couple of days. He was sure, though, that he would eventually burst if everything went south – as it usually did.

"You should go home, Mr. Reese. You'll need to be at Roosevelt by eight-fifteen tomorrow morning. Goodnight,"

"Goodnight, Harold,"

…


	4. Three Times the Charm

_1999_

The bar was loud, smoky, disgusting, and filled with hot women looking for a man to whisk them away to their apartments. It was the perfect place for five men celebrating their last day of military leave to go to.

Once the bartender had served them all, they raised their glasses and toasted to their country. They took one big gulp. Raised their glasses again and toasted to the beautiful women who were in the corner smiling mischievously at them. When done with all the toasting, four of the five went over to the ladies on the other side of the bar and started to tell them their "heroic" battle stories.

One of the men waved at the lone man at the counter. "C'mon, John!"

The man waved his hand, waving away the invitation, but still smiled at his men's happiness.

The women "oh"ed and "ah"ed at the stories, and giggled when the soldiers said something funny. From the counter, their sergeant watched his soldiers make fools of themselves willingly. He smiled and laughed from where he was, raising his glass and whistling whenever one of his men would dip a lady back and kiss her.

When the four soldiers did that, their fates were sealed for the night.

However, someone didn't like the fact that one of the sergeant's men had glued himself to one of the women.

"Jason. Jason, please. Just leave. Don't make a fool of yourself here." One of the girls, Lieutenant Portman's for the night, said, attempting to push a drunken man away from her.

"No. No. No. No, Diane. Please. I'll do whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want me to do. I'll fix everything. Just come back. Come back to me, Diane." The drunken man begged, holding onto the woman, Diane's, wrists, tightly.

Portman came up and pushed his way between Diane and the drunken man. "I believe I heard the lady tell you to leave." The three other soldiers – Cranston, Lusk and Wilson – flanked Portman, holding a serious expression identical to their brother's.

The sergeant at the counter stood up and watched carefully the proceedings. He didn't need anyone hurt when they went back to base tomorrow morning.

"Get out of my way, little man. _I_ was having a conversation with the _lady._"

To call Portman "little man" was indeed an insult, but was also an accurate description to what he was compared to the drunken man in front of him. While Portman was tall and was lean muscle, the drunken man was a tower with muscles and a torso as thick as Hercules's. But Portman and the others did not stand down.

Diane gently placed her hands on Portman's shoulders and squeezed. "Please. Don't fight. Just forget it. It was nothing. He's drunk."

"I AM NOT!" the drunken man thundered.

The sergeant came up behind the man and took a grip of his shoulder. "Hay man, c'mon. Let me get you a taxi. You can finish your conversation with this lovely woman when you're sober, all right?"

The man's lips curled disgustingly. "Why do you care?"

The sergeant smiled patiently. "C'mon," He gestured with his head towards the back door. "I'll get you a taxi." He repeated.

"Sergeant-" Cranston began to protest.

"Stand down, men. There's no need for a fight tonight." The sergeant ordered.

The four soldiers nodded. "Yes, sir,"

The sergeant gently pulled the drunken man away from the group and out the back down into an alley, lit by a single street lamp. The man stumbled from the sergeant's grasp and onto his knees, where he puked next to a trash bin. The sergeant's face slightly twisted with disgust, but he took out his wallet and counted a few bills then folded them and walked up to the puking man.

He took the man's hand and put the bills in it. "Here," He said. "That should be enough to get you anywhere you want to go."

"I do want to go anywhere," the man said, his voice shaky, "without Diane."

The sergeant patted the guy on the back. He was persistent. Under the right circumstances, that would be impressive and called loyalty. But considering the way he'd acted around Diane, the sergeant wasn't too sure that his persistence would lead to anything positive.

"C'mon, man. Just get out of here. You're drunk. Sleep it off."

"I. AM. NOT. DRUNK." The man growled. In a flash, he'd turned and sent the sergeant flying towards the other side of the alley. The man had used his arm like a baseball bat and the sergeant like a baseball.

The sergeant slide to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He'd had worst, and quickly recovered, but not quick enough to stand up and have any way of protecting himself with the now armed drunken man in front of him.

The man's knees were shaking and tears were streaming out of his eyes. His lips curled in a pout and his breathing was heavy and shaky. "I'm…not…drunk." The man explained.

The sergeant raised his hands slowly, in a gesture of surrender. "You're not drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're not drunk."

"I just want Diane."

"You just want Diane." The sergeant went along with everything that the man said, hoping to get him to calm down and put his gun down, or distract him long enough for the sergeant to spring up and take his weapon from him.

"I want her to come back to me. I didn't mean to hit her. It just…happened. I got really mad, and, and…I snapped."

The sergeant stood up from the ground a bit. "Of course. We've all had times like that." No. No, not everyone has had times like that. The sergeant surely hadn't. He would never dare hit a woman. Without purpose or otherwise.

The man scowled at the sergeant, not sure what to make of his replies. After a moment, he leaned closer and concluded, "You're lying."

"About what?" the sergeant asked.

That seemed to confuse the man just a bit, but it frustrated him too. He shook his head and gripped the gun tighter. He roared in anger and then pointed the gun at the sergeant, his anxious hand shaking the gun. "I JUST WANT DIANE!"

He pulled the trigger, two, three times, and at the familiar sound of gunshots, the sergeant expected to feel suddenly empty, unbalanced, odd. But instead, he felt something fall slack against him and something else warm drip down his arms and front.

Into his arms had fallen a young girl, only about fifteen, with shoulder length, wavy, chocolate brown hair. Her eyes were closed and her front was covered in fresh blood, wet and running. She wasn't moving.

The drunken man froze for a moment, dropped his gun, then ran off, but not in a straight line.

"Oh…Oh, my God." The sergeant breathed, falling to his knees and pulling the girl into his lap. He pressed his fingers against her bloody wrist and felt nothing, but then, as extra precaution, pressed his fingers against her neck and felt a slight pulse against her skin, where her blood still flowed, because her heart was still beating.

The sergeant looked up and down the alley, shock and disbelief shaking him to his very core. He was supposed to have been shot. He was supposed to by lying there in the alley, dying. Not this girl. She was beautiful and young. Why was she dying and not he? How had she gotten in front of him? Why had she put herself in front of him?

"HELP!" the sergeant cried, holding the dying girl in his arms. "Someone help!"


	5. Makeup

_2013_

The brownstone's porch light was still on, which meant that Chloe was either still up, or had fallen asleep waiting for Alice to come home.

Alice didn't know which one was the truth. She didn't really care, and she barely observed the fact that the porch light was still on. All she could do was stare at the young man in front of her, looking her straight in the eye, for he was as tall as her, but only because he was on step lower than Alice.

He took her hand in his and placed a delicate kiss on her knuckles. Alice held her breath. This young man, Mark Dutto, a sophomore, was known throughout Alice's and his high school for his chivalry and though a kiss on the hand from him was far more than Alice could have hoped for that night, or any of the other nights he'd taken her out, she longed for him to kiss her on the lips.

"Thank you, Alice, for this wonderful night." Mark said, smiling charmingly.

Alice couldn't develop a response. She just smiled dumbly back at Mark with a dreamy look in her grey eyes. "Thank you," She finally got out, "for walking home."

Mark carefully leaned for, so they were less than a few inches a part. "It was my pleasure," He whispered against her lips.

Gravity did the rest, and the young couple looked a little awkward, only touching at the lips, and standing on two different steps on one set of stairs.

Alice wrapped her arms around Mark's neck, and Mark moved Alice closer by pulling on her hips, when suddenly, the porch light began to spas out.

Though the young woman was reluctant to let go of her handsome partner, she did so with a sigh. Mark slowly withdrew his hands from Alice's waist. When she stepped back, one hand went to it's pocket, the other to comb a hand through his dark brown hair.

"Thank you, again, for tonight."

"You need to stop saying thank you when you're the one paying for everything, Marcus." Alice commented.

Mark chuckled, looking up at Alice from the side walk. He took in the golden halo around her light auburn hair. She was indeed an angel, he thought. "I'll see you Monday?"

"Of course,"

"All right…" He was satisfied that she wouldn't run off between the few hours left in the Friday night and Monday morning. He began to walk off down the sidewalk.

"Text me when you get home?" Alice called, standing on her tippy-toes so she could see him and he could see her.

"As you wish!" He called back, a face splitting grin on his face.

That was another thing about Mark that Alice liked – He knew _The Princess Bride_ like the back of his right hand.

Alice sighed, smiling, and then danced inside, feeling light. The door was unlocked and the lights were still on, but Chloe was not in sight. The girl slipped off her purse and jacket and hung it on the coat hanger by the door. She kicked off her shoes too, right before she was nearly scared to death.

"Ya know, just because I have kissing sessions on the front porch, doesn't mean you can too."

With a small scream, Alice jumped out of her socks and knocked over the coat hanger. Behind her, leaning the opening that lead into another room, arms crossed, Chloe laughed.

Alice slid to the ground and glared at her adopted mother. "Why's that?"

"Because you're fourteen and I'm twenty-nine."

"So you're saying I have to be as ancient as the pyramids before I'm allowed to kiss anyone?"

Chloe scowled, then straightened. "No, just as old as the Black Plague."

"When's that?"

"When you're dead!" Chloe cleared off for the kitchen.

Alice followed after her. "But the pyramids are older than the Black Plague!"

"Yes, but people _died_," Chloe made a funny face when she said "died". "Indicating, you can't kiss until you're dead." The young woman took a big scoop of Rocky Road with her spoon.

"People died building the pyramids," Alice countered, stealing the Rocky Road.

Chloe sucked on her spoon. "Touché," She climbed onto the kitchen counter.

Alice giggled.

"So where'd he take you?"

"La Piazza. His cousins own it."

"Oooo. What'd ya have?"

"It's a good thing you're not an English teacher."

"Yeah, otherwise _you'd_ have _my_ job."

"I had grilled chicken with rosemary and lemon and white pasta."

Chloe beckoned Alice over to her for another scoop of ice cream. "And to drink?"

"Dr. Pepper. Don't worry; I'm not going to go around to every restaurant asking for a margarita just because I said I liked it when you gave me a virgin one the other day."

"Ya never know. Alcohol can does _weeeeeird_ things to the brain!"

"How much have you had tonight?"

"Ha. Ha. You're soooo funny. None, anywhere. Later I might, 'cause, ya know, it's only eight o'clock. I thought you were going to see a movie too?"

"There's nothing good out."

"Nothing that didn't involve the two of you talking and holding hands and kissing."

"Shut up, or not going to give you any more ice cream."

"Fine. What movie do you want to watch? 'Fried Green Tomatoes', 'The Avengers', or 'Pretty Woman'?"

"Can we watch all three?"

"Pick one, and then, depending on what time it is, we could watch another, then we'll watch the other tomorrow morning over breakfast and a pot of coffee before we go over to Grandpa's for Lily's birthday party."

"Mmmm…" Alice bowed forward, handing the ice cream tub to Chloe. She gently caressed the skin beneath her foster mother's right eye. "Are you wearing makeup?"

Chloe leaned and acted to confused. "Huh. I must've missed a spot."

"What do you mean?" Alice snickered. "You never wear makeup,"

"I wear makeup, Alice. Just not a lot of it. Besides, I had a killer pimple this morning. Here," Chloe handed the ice cream back. "Go and pick a movie while I go wash my face."

"'Kay,"

While Alice headed to the living room where Chloe had been watching "the Golden Girls" while waiting for her to get home, Chloe headed up the stairs to her bathroom.

She turned some warm water on and closed the door. She could still hear Alice laughing, but she hoped Alice wouldn't be able to hear her. Producing a washcloth, Chloe wetted a portion of the cloth and then carefully scrubbed it. Grimacing, cursing, and whimpering, Chloe wiped away the foundation revealing a green and purple bruise running along the side of her face.

She threw a handful of hot water on her face, hissing later at the heat. Steam began to fog the mirror above her sink and make her sleepy. It hurt though, to close her right eye.

Tears ran down her face. She's only received this injury the day before, just after school. Alice was a very smart, observant girl who would notice the bruise eventually. But then, tomorrow, she would have to see her grandfather, and he was an expert at recognizing pain. He would notice, if she were not careful.

She had everything in order, and it was going through the requirements. However, it had yet to stop. She would just have to be patient. As always.

Why couldn't _he_ be here to stop this all?

…


End file.
